


Now I'm A Witness to the Death of a Hero (EDITED REUPLOAD)

by A_Butter_Churner



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Barricade Day, Canonical Character Death, Enjolras's girlfriend is FRANCE ok, Love Confessions, M/M, Oblivious Enjolras, Pining Grantaire (Les Misérables), Pre-Barricade, Re-upload of a previous work, Songfic, enjoltaire - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:40:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24554806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Butter_Churner/pseuds/A_Butter_Churner
Summary: Grantaire knew that it was better to not hope at all. That pretending it didn’t hurt to see the golden haired, sapphire eyed angel glare at him with disdain and repulsion was safer. That killing fantasies of being held and kissed and praised by the Sun God before they even took flight made him satisfied.Enjolras wouldn’t understand this, he couldn’t understand this. Because Enjolras did nothing but hope.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21





	Now I'm A Witness to the Death of a Hero (EDITED REUPLOAD)

**Author's Note:**

> YO HAPPY BARRICADE DAY
> 
> This is a reupload of a work I did maybe a month ago? I forget.
> 
> But yeah. This is also my submission to my application for "Hands Clasped Tight" a Les Mis fanzine, so PLEASE don't repost this or copy it to another site.
> 
> Thank ye very much, and enjoy!

Grantaire ran his hand over the pale green glass of the bottle, fingering the nose with the pad of his thumb. There were little cuts on it, tiny etchings of all those who’d handled it before him. Perhaps a woman, perhaps a man, perhaps a creature. Perhaps a measly little fly had landed on the rim of the bottle before the bartender had handed it to him. He went through this process with every bottle, each time nursing the intrusive thoughts and ‘what if’s’ that slithered into his mind before drowning them with the fiery liquids, forcing them to burn away. Each swig broiled his brain and dulled the ache in his heart. He plastered a drunk grin on his face, pretending he enjoyed it.

‘What if’s’ were dangerous because they brought hope. Hope was a false promise. It was like a sticky, too-sweet syrup that one yearned to drink up just one more time, filling one’s lungs with too many wishes for questions and too many fantasies for answers.

And when that hope was crushed, it left one feeling emptier and hollower than before.

Grantaire knew that it was better to not hope at all. That pretending it didn’t hurt to see the golden haired, sapphire eyed angel glare at him with disdain and repulsion was safer. That killing fantasies of being held and kissed and praised by the Sun God before they even took flight made him satisfied.

Enjolras wouldn’t understand this, he **_couldn’t_** understand this. Because Enjolras did nothing but hope. He hoped for a new day in France. He hoped that the people would just wake up one day and realize their oppression, and band together to break it. He hoped that the students could make a difference in the lives and hearts of every Frenchman before them.

Grantaire knew it was pointless. He knew that the people, backs permanently curved from hunching over to pick scraps of food from off the streets. Hair matted, grizzled, and probably housing all sorts of rodents and ticks, would never help them. And he told Enjolras as such.

And every time, his admonitions fell on deaf ears.

There was a reason he called Enjolras, “Apollo”. Because when he entered a room, heads turned, all captivated by the light that reflected off of every blonde curl, every glance of his cerulean irises. Every person hung upon his every word, soaking his velvet-coated voice up like a sponge, milking every minute moment, catching every crook of his lips and chirp of his tone. When he spoke, everyone listened. Even if what he preached was insanely fantastical and too good to be true, he spoke with such conviction that even Grantaire sometimes dared to believe. Believe that France could be better.

Believe that in some parallel universe, there was a place for Enjolras and him. Maybe in that universe, he could card his crooked fingers through that heaven-blessed halo and lean his shrunken head against that lean, muscular shoulder. Maybe he could even be _kissed_. Oh, how wonderful would that be?

No. It would not do to entertain these thoughts. But Enjolras made him feel so _weak._

How could the revolutionary not see what he was doing? How could he be so blind? How could he not know the effect he had on their compatriots? Did he know that he was making them long for a future that just could not be, that would not ever be?

Did he know, that by erecting the Barricade, and challenging the National Guard, he had sentenced them all to death?

Grantaire knew he would never leave his Apollo. He wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ desert his friends either. He wouldn’t run away tonight, though every fiber of his being itched to. He had tried to dissuade Enjolras time and time again with sharp comments and furious debates from which neither of them came out unscathed.

It had never worked.

He watched now as Enjolras tied up his long blonde locks in front of the mirror, rubbing the shaft of the rifle in his hand, caressing it with surprising gentleness, steeling himself for the battle ahead. Oh, how Grantaire wished that he too could be treated with such delicacy by his Apollo.

The leader’s eyes met his own through the glass, and softened for a second. Grantaire’s stomach twisted and morphed, trying to swallow itself and the rest of him along with it. He swallowed uncomfortably, daring to keep on making eye contact.

“I didn’t think you’d come, R. I’m glad you did.” Enjolras turned to face him, a faint smile on his porcelain face. His hands drummed absently on the weapon in his hand.

“Well, I couldn’t very well leave my Apollo to die. Gods are supposed to be immortal, after all.” Grantaire attempted to joke, although there was truth in it.

The smile disappeared from Enjolras’s lips. “Do you truly think that we don’t stand a chance? Do you _truly think_ that, even if we die, we won’t make an impression on our fellow Frenchmen?”

“Yes, Enjolras. That is exactly what I think. I’m telling you, the people are not coming. They will never come. We are going to _die._ ” Grantaire stepped toward the taller man, his voice escalating in pitch.

Enjolras stiffened at this. “So be it then. I do not fear Death, and neither should you, nor all of us. As long as we are dying to make our motherland a better place.”

“No, Enjolras. You may think that we will die like martyrs, but we won’t! We will just die, and then be forgotten. It’s not fair, it’s not right, it **_hurts_** _ **.**_ But it’s true. You can’t argue with the truth.” Grantaire reached out to touch his Apollo’s arm.

Enjolras shook the other man off of him. “You are just a cynic. You believe in nothing, nothing at all. Why are you even here, R? Turn tail and go home like the coward you are.” He cried, ice curling in his eyes, steeling the blue.

The words slapped Grantaire hard across the face leaving a bright purple bruise on his heart. “I believe in you.” He murmured quietly. He’d often mumbled these words to himself, staring up at his Apollo, who wasn’t ever really his.

Enjolras’s mouth opened slightly in a little ‘o’ shape.

Grantaire drew in a slow breath, knowing he had nothing left to lose, and continued. “I’ve believed in you since the beginning. I will always believe in you. You are my Apollo, my sun, my **_everything_** _._ There’s not a day that I go without wondering what life would be like if you loved me half as much as I love you, instead of despising me like you really do. But you hope for too much! You dream so big and you are so, so amazingly convincing that we all think your dreams can become a reality. But we can’t win this fight, Apollo, no matter how much you want to.”

“R, I…” Enjolras trailed off.

Grantaire inhaled another deep breath. **“** I will follow you to the ends of the earth. I will grovel at your feet and black your boots. I will do anything you ask of me because I _love you._ But what about Combeferre and his lover, Courfeyrac? What of little Gavroche and his sister ‘Ponine? Of Feuilly, who represents everything you fight for and, in my opinion, should be the only one standing on that barricade out of any of us? And even our lovesick idiot Marius? What of _my_ friends, Apollo? Joly, Bossuet, Bahorel? I doubt many of them want to die.”

He had taken Enjolras’s hand now, and was squeezing it against his own chest, the tears gushing from his eyes in rivers, eroding his pale cheeks.

Shakily, he spoke again. “Before the battle, the National Guard will ask one last time for a surrender, I’m practically certain. Take that chance, **_please_** **.** Come back to me. To the Café. To a future where you can be **_alive._** **Where we can all be alive! _Please_ , Apollo.”**

Enjolras placed a warm hand on Grantaire’s cheek, brushing his thumb tenderly across the cynic’s jaw. “I’m sorry, R. I…I don’t know what to say.”

“Just please stay.” Grantaire whispered, pressing their foreheads together, blocking the doubts from his mind.

Enjolras enveloped the other in a tight embrace, a singular sob escaping his throat. “I can’t, Grantaire. You know I can’t.”

“Just let go of your fucking pride for once, Apollo!” Grantaire begged.

“It’s not just my pride, R. France will always be my first love. I owe her a debt. If we don’t do this, then who will? Yes, I’m sure they will ask for a surrender, but that will make us no better than the elitist monarchists who began this. Worse, we’ll be traitors. The people are counting on us.”

Grantaire’s heart shriveled like a prune in the sun. “What people?” he muttered under his breath.

Then his Apollo tilted the cynic’s chin up to look at him in his beautiful eyes before whispering, “But after France, there _is_ someone else I love.”

“Apollo.” Grantaire breathed, a faint smile dancing across his lips, despite himself. Could this really be happening?

Enjolras smiled widely and caressed Grantaire’s cheek before bringing their lips together for the first time.

Imagine for a second the sun kissing the night sky, sending sparks soaring through the crisp air to lodge themselves and become stars. That was what this was like. Each moment was spent breathing in one another, tasting the wine and margarine off of each other’s tongues.

Grantaire’s tears hadn’t stopped falling, so Enjolras kissed each one off his face.

“Why didn’t we do this before?” R joked breathily.

Enjolras paused, then placed a chaste kiss on the other’s collarbone. “Because I thought you loathed me.”

“What? Why?” How could their chief ever think that he was anything more than worshipped in the cynic’s eyes?

“You contradicted me at every turn, I could feel your eyes on me every time I spoke. You made me so nervous sometimes.”

“Enjolras…” R smiled slightly, touching his lips to the other man’s once more. “I thought _you_ hated _me_.”

Enjolras cocked his head. “I could never hate you. You made me uncomfortable at first, but even then I think it was only because you were always _right._ And I knew it, too.”

Grantaire nodded, leaning his head into his Apollo’s touch.

“You know, I tried to impress you sometimes. With my ideas.” Enjolras chuckled. “Each one a bit more daring than the last.”

“You’re kidding. I hated your ideas, most of them, but only because I loved **_you_** _._ And all of those ideas would get you killed.”

They pulled apart then. “Just like this one.” Grantaire mumbled.

Enjolras kissed Grantaire once again on his temple. “You don’t have to come, I think I’d prefer it if you didn’t. We’ll succeed. I promise.”

Grantaire’s heart sunk with heavy dread, but he simply shook his head. “I’m coming. I’m never leaving your side.”

His Apollo smiled.

“I love you.” Grantaire wanted to say, but his voice caught in his throat.

The fight itself was a blur. Enjolras left him in order to _challenge the guardsmen closer up. Grantaire watched as his stomach sank lower and lower in his body as his friends, people who he’d come to know and cherish and love, all plopped down to the ground, dead. Gavroche, Bossuet, Joly, Courfeyrac. All gone._

Suddenly he felt a prick in his leg, and he collapsed.

When he awoke, he saw the familiar glint of golden hair and piercing of blue eyes. He saw guns. He saw guards. He saw, for the first time, fear on his Apollo’s face. Fear that didn’t belong there.

“No!” He gasped. They all turned to face him.

He said the first thing that came to mind: “Vive le Republique! I am one of them.”

He had no right to do this, but then he noticed the grin of approval on Enjolras’s face and he repeated the sentence.

As if moved by some supernatural force, Grantaire kept walking towards the light, towards his Apollo, until their hands were intertwined and they were facing one another.

“Do you permit it?” He breathed huskily, whiskey on his breath.

Enjolras only smiled and squeezed the cynic’s hand. He then raised the blood-drenched flag above his head in one last gesture of defiance as eight bullets entered their bodies at the same time.

By some cruel twist of fate, Grantaire was not yet dead. He stared at Enjolras whose still body was marked and sullied by crimson curses, the life blood of their friends. The cynic resisted the urge to see if his Apollo’s body really did flow with nectarine ichor. The pain was unbearable, a malevolent agony, but he craned his neck to see a soft smile upon the youth’s face. He leaned forward despite the burning in his body to place one last kiss to his lover’s lips, only he didn’t quite make it. A sharp sting sent a spike up his back and his lips collided with Enjolras’s cheek. Grantaire’s vision was growing whiter and murkier as he lay against the body of his Apollo.

Maybe one day, in that parallel universe, Enjolras and him would reunite and clasp their hands together so tight, they’d never have to let go.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, tell me what you think!


End file.
